Creepy, hitting on a guy outside the ER, Amy tells you later. On the curb smoking, black forelock of hair over his eyes, fading word you can’t read tattooed across his knuckles. He flicks a yellow Bic, lights your cigarette, says his skateboard buddy’s inside, broken collarbone. He’s hoping for a shitload of Vicoden they can sell at school. They can get ten bucks a pill. He’s too young for you but shows you his own injury, a ragged scrape down the back of his arm. You’ll kiss him there first, tang of metal and salt biting your tongue, the tattoo don’t stop just below his navel making you laugh.
Lisa Zimmerman’s poetry and short stories have appeared in Natural Bridge, River Styx, Colorado Review, Poet Lore, Cave Wall, Redbook and other journals. Her most recent poetry collections are The Light at the Edge of Everything (Anhinga Press, 2008) and Snack Size: Poems (Mello Press, 2012). She lives in Fort Collins, Colorado and teaches at the University of Northern Colorado.